“I’ve never known her to be wrong,” carries on Bliss. “Anyway, why would our man be interested?”
“Not him,” agrees Peter Bryan. “But I bet his handler is.”
“Anything on that front?” questions Bliss.
“Actually, Dave, yes. Quite a bit,” says his son-in-law, before outlining how the officer assigned to tail Edwards, once internal affairs was alerted about the senior man’s involvement with Creston, found him at lunch in a pricey restaurant with Mason.
“Apparently they didn’t speak,” Peter Bryan continues, “but Mason left his Times on the table and Edwards snatched it faster than a pigeon on a sandwich in Trafalgar Square.”
“That’s pretty old-fashioned stuff,” scoffs Bliss. “Mind, he’s not exactly James Bond. So, what was in the paper?”
“Maybe he just wanted something intellectual to read for a change,” suggests Bryan sarcastically. “But the tail said he just rolled it up, paid his bill, and got out of there faster then a scorched rabbit.”
Daphne Lovelace is also preparing to leave.
“I’d better get back to Missie Rouge,” she explains to Trina as they sit over the breakfast table. “I’ve been here more than three weeks.”
But the Canadian woman looks crestfallen. “You can’t,” she says. “Not yet. We still haven’t finished the case.”
Daphne smiles at her friend’s enthusiasm. “I think we did all right.”
“No,” insists Trina grumpily. “We didn’t get anywhere. Craddock is still on the run, that Beautiful joint is still as freaky as ever, and Creston’s got Janet back — according to Mike Phillips, she’ll be gone in a few days. We never did find out what happened to her kids…”
Daphne lays a hand over Trina’s. “At least we helped save Janet’s life.”
“Life,” spits Trina. “That’s not life. Not what she had. She was just a slave.”
“I guess some women are happy being slaves,” says Daphne despairingly. “Some women just like to serve men. They think it’s their duty. For some women, the more they are disrespected the harder they try to please.”
“Not me,” says Trina.
“Me, neither,” agrees Daphne. “But some just keep pleading for more.”
“Reverse psychology,” suggests Trina knowingly.
“Oh poor little me. What to do? My husband won’t talk to me anymore,” whines Daphne, smoothing back her hair, and Trina laughs as Daphne continues, “I shall have to pamper him — cook him nice dinners…”
“That would be nice for a change,” says Rick Button as he slips in to give Trina a goodbye kiss. “So what adventures are you two cooking up today?”
“Actually, I’m going home,” says Daphne.
“Oh,” he replies with a look to his wife. “Does this mean you’re going back to work?”
“Guess so,” she says then she gives him a friendly poke. “Hey, we’ve been working.”
“Hawaii,” he sneers.
“Lovelace and Button, International Investigators,” she reminds him as he makes for the door.
Last chapter, Bliss tells himself as he begins with a clean sheet and a glass of Côtes du Provençe at L’Escale. The chilled nor’westerly wind, the mistral, sweeping down the valley of the Rhone from the distant Alps has taken the last vestiges of the summer’s heat and pushed it south to the savannahs and deserts of Africa. The wintry nip may have forced Bliss indoors, but through the misted window of the bar the masked man’s island fortress stands out sharply against a cobalt background in the clean mountain air, and the remnants of his great testament, the Château Roger, are clearly visible through the windblown vegetation.
“Nearly finished,” says Bliss as he sees Angeline approaching and guesses that she will inquire.
“Zhat is good, no?”
“Yes, Angeline. Zhat is very good.”
“And your friend?”
“Yolanda,” he reminds her. “Yes,” he adds confidently, “she will soon come home.”
“That is good also, no?”
“Yes, Angeline. Zhat is good, no,” he parodies as he picks up his pen and begins:
“Today I view my magnificent château across the blue bay with a lightness of heart. Today, I know that my plan is working. Today I know that my lover is thinking fondly of me…”
Bliss’s cellphone interrupts his writing and he’s tempted to ignore it, but he has Yolanda on his mind and is answering “Dave Bliss” before he has a chance to check the call display.
“Is that you, David?” queries Daphne from her home in Westchester.
“Oh. Hello, Daphne,” he replies, trying to take out the note of disappointment. “What’s happening?”
“I need your help,” she begins, and he immediately tries to duck.
“I’m really busy.”
“I know,” she says, “but it will only take a day or so.”
“Couldn’t Ted or Peter do it?” he suggests, but she has made up her mind.
“No, David. Peter’s too young and Ted’s too old. You are the perfect man for the job. You could easily pass for forty any day.”
“Thanks…”
“Plus, you’re not officially in the police at the moment.”
“Oh. Oh,” he says picking up the implication. “This sounds dodgy.”
“Devious, David,” she admits, “but not exactly dodgy,” and he gives in.
Chief Superintendent Michael Edwards is dodgy and has always been dodgy. He didn’t climb the career ladder on the backs of other officers; he stomped his way to the top one head at a time. If he spent as much time and effort getting the dirt on villains during his service as he does on blackening his colleagues he would probably be “top of the cops” in Police Review. But playing by the rules and keeping the streets clean doesn’t always lead to the top. Good guys come last as easily in the police as any other field, and Edwards was never inclined to risk taking the long route.
It has been a few weeks since Creston’s grateful handout found its way into the chief superintendent’s pocket, but the cash has burnt a hole. Crisp £50 notes take up surprisingly little space, but he knows that it will not take a genius to trace the consecutive numbers back to the issuing bank, so he’s already shifted them four times around various nooks and crannies in his house and garage.
Don’t flash it about. Don’t spend it all in one place, he told himself repeatedly, but he’s had his eye on a new car for some time now. Why would anyone be suspicious? he asks himself.
“Thinking of treating myself to a new motor,” the schemer declares loudly, sowing a few seeds as he lines up for lunch in the cafeteria behind Bliss’s son-in-law, Peter Bryan.
“Oh,” asks Bryan as if cued. “Another beemer, sir?”
“I guess so,” says Edwards, as if it’s a punishment. “What are you scooting around in these days, Peter?”
“An old Jag.”
“I should’ve thought you’d have gone more up-market with a lawyer for a wife.”
“Well, the money’s not everything.”
“Damn right,” says Edwards. “By the way, how’s her dad? Have you heard from him?”
“He’s OK.”
“OK,” sniggers Edwards as he grabs a chicken curry. “Silly bastard. Reckons he can write a fucking book.”
“Well, he is.”
“Yeah. But let’s face it, Peter. There’s no poxin’ money in that is there? He’ll never be driving a beemer that’s for certain.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, sir,” says Bryan as he goes for the beef stew. “I actually think he’s turning out a real blockbuster.” “Two days,” warns Bliss as soon as Daphne answers the knock on her front door. “I’ve got a return ticket.”
“All right, David.” She laughs as she ushers him into the kitchen. “But what’s your hurry?”
“I’ve got to finish my novel. I want it done by the end of January at the latest,” he tells her, then goes on to explain his mission vis-à-vis Yolanda.
Daphne sits back in admirati
on. “My goodness, David,” she sighs. “That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. You have actually written an entire novel just to get back your lost love. That’s absolutely brilliant.”
“I just hope Yolanda sees it that way. Anyway don’t blame me, it was Samantha’s idea.”
“I always said your daughter was a genius.”
“That why she’s a lawyer and I’m just a starving author.”
“You’re not starving,” chuckles Daphne. “In any case you’ll always have your police pension to fall back on.”
“True,” he admits, but his brow crinkles. “Although I’m beginning to worry she might hate me for doing it, for making our affair public.”
“What if she doesn’t read it?” queries Daphne putting up another block. “I mean, what’s the chance of it being published in Dutch?”
“About as much chance as Urdu or Swahili,” he replies. “But I’ve already thought of that. As soon as the manuscript is finished I’m going to track her down and send her a copy.”
“And if she explodes?”
“She’ll never come back to me,” he acknowledges. “But I’ll have the best damn love story ever written. Like Samantha said, every talk show and newspaper in the country will want me. Sam reckons it could make me a millionaire. ‘Jilted detective writes award-winning novel,’” he adds as if reading a banner headline.
“She might sue,” cautions Daphne.
“For what?” questions Bliss. “Telling the truth, saying, ‘I love this woman so much I tried to script her back into my life’? Anyway, nothing pushes book sales higher than a rip-roaring public muckrake.”
“You’ve thought of everything haven’t you?” says Daphne with a broad grin.
“I hope so,” replies Bliss. “You’ve no idea how much I love that woman.”
“I think I do, David. I think I do,” she says, seeing the passion in his sparkling blue eyes, and then she segues into her tale of Amelia Drinkwater and the crusty woman’s romantic attachment to Joseph Creston. “One second she’s all sanctimonious, telling me that she never has a bad word to say about anyone,” continues Daphne, “and the next she’s lynching her ex-boyfriend’s wife.”
“You mean Janet Thurgood?”
“Yes. Miss Holier-Than-Thou Drinkwater couldn’t wait to put the boot in.”
“Jealousy?” queries Bliss.
“That’s what I suspected at first, but Trina is absolutely convinced of Janet’s innocence.”
“That’s hardly a good start,” scoffs Bliss, letting Daphne know where he stands on the subject of the zany Canadian. “If I remember rightly she wanted me to dress up as a giant condom to raise money for the Kidney Foundation —”
“Yes. All right,” breaks in Daphne holding up a hand. “She gets carried away at times, but I actually think she may be right.”
“Because?”
“Methinks Miss Goody-Goody Drinkwater doth protest too much.”
“Mrs. Drinkwater?” queries Bliss tentatively, standing back from the door as if preparing for an explosion.
“And just who are you?” demands the woman, using her magisterial tone despite the fact that it is a little after nine in the morning and she is standing at her own front door in a pink flannelette housecoat, nylon toilet brush in hand.
Bliss has a confused, perhaps lost, expression that he practised in Daphne’s bathroom mirror, and he fidgets with apparent unease as he stammers, “Um… well… um… Actually, I’m no longer sure. I… I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look,” he carries on with downcast eyes. “This is quite awkward but, um… may I come in?”
“Well, what do you want?” she demands, standing her ground.
Bliss pauses for a very long second while he focuses fiercely on his fingers, then he appears to make up his mind, and with a look suggesting he’s close to tears he pleads, “I’m hoping that you might be able to tell me who I am.”
Amelia Drinkwater stands back with a very suspicious eye, but her visitor’s sharp suit, Hermes tie, and shiny shoes can’t easily be dismissed, so she wordlessly sweeps him into her breakfast room and waves him to a chair.
“Carry on,” she instructs and waits with raised eyebrows.
“You see,” he says with due seriousness, “when my mother — my adoptive mother — passed away about six months ago…” he pauses to correct himself, to add weight. “Actually it was in April. So it’s nearly a year now. Anyway, I found this in her papers.”
Putting his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, Bliss pulls out a copy of the birth certificate relating to the third Creston child, Johannes, and hands it to her.
Amelia Drinkwater slowly pales as she reads, and then she shakes her head. “But Joe is dead…”
“That’s what they told me at the public records office.”
“Then why are you asking me?”
“Well, I’ve always wondered about my natural parents, I think most adopted kids do, but my mum and dad, the people who brought me up, would never tell me.”
“You’re not listening to me,” continues Amelia, clearly flustered. “I told you, Joe is dead. You cannot be Joe.”
“I know, I know,” he says apparently placating her. “And that’s why I didn’t come when I first found my… when I found Johannes’ birth certificate.”
“Then why are you here now?”
“Well,” he says, going for the other pocket and extracting the copy of the boy’s death certificate. “August 15, 1963,” he points out, jabbing his finger on the date of death.
“So?”
“Mrs. Drinkwater,” he says solidly, forcing her gaze. “My adoption was commenced on August 16, 1963, and my birthdate is February 4 of that year.” Then he raises an eyebrow as he directs her towards an apparently inescapable conclusion. “Exactly the same as Joe’s.”
Amelia Drinkwater’s face drains, and she grasps her knees to stop them shaking. “But… but… but…” she stutters like a cheap outboard motor. “But…you’re dead.”
“So, where’s my grave?” demands Bliss, piling on the pressure. “I’ve been to all the churches. There’s no record of a grave.”
“I… I don’t know…” she starts angrily, but doesn’t suggest the Creston estate. Instead, she decides it is time to escape. “I’ll make some tea,” she says, hurriedly rising. “Would you… would you?”
“Yes, please,” he says. “Milk. No sugar.”
Fascinating, he thinks, watching the woman stagger to the door; something seems to have rattled Madam Drinkwater’s cage. Although fifteen minutes later, when Amelia returns with a neatly laid tea tray, she has dressed in a grey suit, dabbed on some makeup, and seemingly pulled herself together.
“All right…” she starts strongly, then pauses, searching for his name.
“David,” he offers. “David Jenkins… that’s my adopted name.”
“Well, David. Why are you asking me about this?”
“Mr. Rowlands, the vicar of St. Stephen’s,” he replies as per Daphne’s briefing. “I was searching the church records, looking for my… looking for Johannes’ christening records and stuff, and he said you would be the best person. That you knew everything about the parish.”
“I’m flattered,” she starts with a wan smile, but then claims ignorance. “I’m sorry but I can’t help. I only know what was rumoured around town at the time.”
“I don’t suppose you kept a copy of the local paper…”
“Good grief, no!” she exclaims. “Why on earth would I?”
“I thought you might.”
“No.”
“Are you sure?” he pushes, suggesting by his tone that he has inside information.
“I said no,” she snaps and flies from her chair to peer out of the window.
“Well,” says Bliss, trying to smooth her down. “It’s just that the vicar said you were a very close friend of Mr. Creston, my… Joe’s father.”
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Amelia turns and explodes. “Look. You are not Johannes Creston, all right. Just put it out of your silly head —”
“But the birth date —”
“I don’t care about your birth date,” she screeches as she stabs an angry finger in his direction. “You are not Joe. Joe is dead. Do you understand? Joe is dead.”
“You seem very sure.”
“I know all right,” she shouts as she storms across the room and pointedly opens the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me I have things to do.”
“I’ll leave my number,” says Bliss as he hands over a card on his way out. “I live in France now.”
“Daphne Lovelace, you are a wicked genius,” Bliss tells his old friend ten minutes later as they sit over a cup of tea in the Olde Curiosity Tea Shoppe in Dewminster.
“I knew she was hiding something,” chuckles Daphne with satisfaction, although she has to agree with her collaborator when he points out that they have no idea what bones Ms. Drinkwater may have concealed in her basement.
“We’ll find out, David. Mark my words. We’ll find out.”
“So,” he says, biting into a cream slice. “What do you think she’s doing now?”
“Looking for this,” says Daphne, slyly pulling out the sepia newspaper cutting that she liberated from the woman’s photograph album.
Daphne is right. Amelia Drinkwater rushed to find the album as soon as she slammed the door on Bliss, and then she slumped into an armchair, mumbling, “How the hell did he know?”
“Where do we go from here, David?” asks Daphne as they drive back to her Westchester home.
“I don’t know about you,” he says tapping the dashboard clock. “But my flight leaves in six hours. I’m meeting Peter and Sam for dinner in London, and then I have a book to finish.”
“All right, David,” she says, laughing. “You’re excused.”
“Thank you.”
Then she puts a kindly hand on his arm. “I really hope this works for you. I really hope Yolanda comes back.”
“She will, Daphne,” he says confidently. “I know she will.”
chapter sixteen
The Taj Mahal Restaurant in Hatton Cross will never win a Michelin star or even a Lonely Planet rubber stamp, but it’s close to the airport. Once he’s dropped his rented car, Bliss munches his way through a pile of pappadums while waiting for his daughter and her husband to arrive and uses the time to weave a caricature of Amelia Drinkwater into his plot.
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